Rita swallowed hard. Tears flooded her eyes; she was angry at her own misjudgment and injustice.”Oh, Christ, Crawf! I'm sorry.” For the first time she took in the extra lines of strain on the anchorman's face, the anguish in his eyes. He looked far worse than when she had last seen him, eight days earlier.”I thought that somehow you . . . Oh, never mind!”
Rita pulled herself together.”Here's what's happening, what Harry and the others are trying to do.” She described the expedition to Nueva Esperanza and what Partridge hoped to achieve. She filled in background, too, explaining Partridge's doubts about telephone security—the reason his plan had not been reported to New York.
At length Sloane said, "I'd like to talk to that pilot, find out how things were when he left Harry and the others. What's his name?”
"Zileri.” Rita looked at her watch.”He's probably not back yet, but I'll phone soon, and then we'll go. Have you had breakfast?”
Sloane shook his head.
”There's a cafeteria in the building. Let's go down.”
Over coffee and croissants, Rita said gently, "Crawf, we were all shocked and saddened by the news about your father Harry especially. I know he blamed himself for not moving faster, but we didn't have the information . . .”
Sloane stopped her with a gesture.”I'll never blame Harry for anything—whatever happens, even now. No one could have done more.”
"I agree,” Rita said, "which is what makes this so unbelievable.” Once more she produced the faxed letter which Les Chippingham had signed.”This is no mistake, Crawf. This was intended. People don't make mistakes like that.”
He read it again.”When we get upstairs I'll phone Les in New York.”
"Before you do, let's consider this: There's something behind it, something you and I don't know. Yesterday in New York—did anything happen out of the ordinary?”
"You mean at CBA?"
"Yes"
Sloane considered.”I don't think so . . . well, I did hear Les was sent for by Margot Lloyd-Mason—apparently in an all fired hurry. He was over at Stonehenge. But I've no idea what it was about.”
A sudden thought struck Rita.”Could it have been something to do with Globanic? Perhaps this.” Opening her purse, she took out the several clipped sheets of paper Harry Partridge had given her this morning.
Sloane took the sheets and read them.”Interesting! A huge debt-to-equity swap. Really big money! Where did you get this?”
"From Harry.” She repeated what Partridge had told her on the way to the airport—how he had received the document from the Peru radio commentator, Sergio Hurtado, who intended to broadcast the information during the coming week. Rita added, "Harry told me he didn't plan to use the story. Said it was the least we could do for Globanic which puts butter on our bread.”
"There could be a linkage between this and Harry's firing,” Sloane said thoughtfully.”I see a possibility. Let's go upstairs and call Les now.”
"There's something I want to do first, when we get there,” Rita said.
The "something” was send for Victor Velasco.
When the international manager of Entel appeared a few minutes later, Rita told him, "I want a secure line to New York, with no one listening.”
Velasco looked embarrassed.”Do you have reason to suppose — . .”
"Yes."
"Please come to my office. You may use a phone there.”
Rita and Crawford Sloane followed the manager to a pleasant, carpeted office on the same floor.”Please use my desk.” He pointed to a red phone.”That line is secure. I guarantee it. You may dial direct.”
"Thank you.” With Partridge en route to Nueva Esperanza, Rita had no intention of letting his whereabouts, which might be mentioned in conversation, become known to Peru authorities.
With a courteous nod, Velasco left the office, closing the door behind him.
Sloane, seated at the desk, tried Les Chippingham's direct CBA News line first. There was no answer—not unusual on a Saturday morning. What was unusual was that the news president had not left with the CBA News switchboard a number where he could be reached. Consulting a pocket notebook, Sloane tried a third number—Chippingham's uptown Manhattan apartment. Again no response. There was a Scarsdale number where Chippingham sometimes spent weekends. He wasn't there either.
”It rather looks,” Sloane said, "as if he's deliberately made himself unavailable this morning.” He sat at the desk, contemplative, weighing a decision.
”What are you thinking of?” Rita asked.
”Calling Margot Lloyd-Mason.” He picked up the red phone.”I will.”
Sloane tapped out the U.S. overseas code again and the number of Stonehenge. An operator told him, "Mrs. Lloyd-Mason is not in her office today.”
"This is Crawford Sloane. Will you give me her home number, Please.”
"It's unlisted, Mr. Sloane. I'm not allowed to give it out.”
"But you have it?”
The operator hesitated.”Yes, sir.”
"What's your name, operator?”
"Noreen.”
"A beautiful name; I've always liked that. Now, please listen to me carefully, Noreen. By the way, do you recognize my voice?”
"Oh yes, sir. I watch the news every night. But lately I've been worried . . .”
"Thank you, Noreen. So have I. Now, I'm calling from Lima, Peru, and I simply have to speak with Mrs. Lloyd-Mason. If you'll give me that number, I promise I will never breathe a word of how I got it, except that next time I'm in Stonehenge I'll come to the switchboard room and thank you personally.”
"Oh! Would you really, Mr. Sloane? We'd all love it!”
"I always keep promises. The number, Noreen?”
He wrote it down as she read it out.
This time, the phone was answered on the second ring by a male voice which sounded like a butler's. Sloane identified himself and asked for Mrs. Lloyd-Mason.
He waited several minutes, then Margot's voice, which was unmistakable, said, "Yes?”
"This is Crawf. I'm calling from Lima.”
"So I was told, Mr. Sloane. I'm curious why you are calling me, particularly at home. First, though, I'd like to offer my sympathy about your father's death.”
"Thank you.”
Unusually for someone of his stature, Sloane had never been on a first-name basis with the CBA president and clearly she intended to keep it that way. He also guessed from her tone and aloofness that he would get nowhere with direct questions. He decided to try the timeworn journalist's trick which so often worked, even with sophisticated persons.
”Mrs. Lloyd-Mason, yesterday when you decided to fire Harry Partridge from CBA, I wonder if you realized how much he has accomplished in the whole effort to find and free my wife, son and father.”
The reply came back explosively, "Who told you that was my decision?”
He was tempted to answer, You just did! But restraining himself, he said, "In the TV news business, which is close-knit, almost nothing is secret. That's why I called you.”
Margot snapped, "I do not wish to discuss this now.”
"That's a pity,” Sloane said, speaking quickly, before she could hang up, "because I thought you might want to talk about the connection between Harry's firing and that big debt to-equity swap Globanic is arranging with Peru. Did Harry's honest reporting offend someone with a stake in that deal?”
At the other end of the line there was a long silence in which he could hear Margot breathing. Then, her voice subdued, she asked, "Where did you hear all that?”
So there was a connection after all!
"Well,” Sloane said, "the fact is, Harry Partridge learned about the debt-to-equity arrangement. He's a first-class reporter, you know, one of the best in our business, and right now he's out risking his life for CBA. Anyway, Harry decided not to use the information. His words were, I understand, 'That's the least I can do for Globanic, which puts butter on our bread.' “
Again the silence. Then Margot asked,
"So it isn't going to be publicized?”
"Aha! That's another matter.” In other circumstances, Sloane thought, he might have enjoyed this; as it was, he felt miserably depressed.”There's a radio reporter in Lima who uncovered the story, has a copy of the agreement, and intends to broadcast it next week. I expect it will be picked up outside Peru. Don't you?”
Margot didn't answer. Wondering if she had hung up, he asked, "Are you still there?”
"Yes."
"Are you wishing, by chance, that you hadn't done what you did to Harry Partridge?”
"No.” The answer seemed disembodied, as if Margot's mind was far away.”No,” she repeated, "I was thinking of other things.”
"Mrs. Lloyd-Mason"—Crawford Sloane employed the cutting tone he used occasionally for repulsive items in the news" has anyone told you lately that you are a cold-hearted bitch?”
He replaced the red phone.
* * *
Margot, too, hung up as her phone went silent. One day soon, she decided, she would find her own way to deal with the self-important Mr. Crawford Sloane. But this was not the time. Right now, other things were more important.
The news she had just been given about Globanic and Peru had severely jolted her. But she had been jolted in the past and seldom stayed that way for long. Margot had not climbed as high and fast as she had in the world of business without serious setbacks, and almost always she contrived to turn them to her advantage. Somehow she must do so now. She paused, weighing initiatives she could take.
Without question, she must call Theo Elliott today. He never minded being disturbed about important business matters at any time, weekends included.
She would tell him she had information that word was circulating in Peru about the Globanic deal, that a Peruvian reporter had somehow obtained a copy of the draft agreement and was about to publish it. It had nothing to do with CBA or, for that matter, any other U.S. network or newspaper; it was a local Peruvian leak, though a bad one.
The whole thing was unfortunate, she would tell Theo, and she didn't want to make judgments, though could not help wondering: Had Fossie Xenos been careless about who he talked to, particularly in Peru? It did seem possible, based on what she had heard, that the enthusiasm Fossie was noted for had made him indiscreet.
She would also tell Theo that because of the activity among the Peruvian press, the matter had come to the attention of CBA News. But Margot had given definite orders that CBA would not report it.
With luck, she thought, by early next week any adverse attention would have shifted away from herself and landed on Fossie. Good!
During her ruminations, Margot did give brief thought to Harry Partridge. Should he be reinstated? Then she decided no. Doing that would only confuse things, and Partridge wasn't important, so let the decision stand. Besides, Theo would still want to make his phone call to Peru's President Castafieda on Monday saying that the troublemaker—to use Theo's word had been dismissed and banished from Peru.
Smiling, confident her strategy would work, she picked up the phone and tapped out the unlisted number of Theo Elliott's home.
* * *
The AeroLibertad owner and pilot, Oswaldo Zileri, had heard of Crawford Sloane and was appropriately respectful.
”When your friends arranged their charter, Mr. Sloane, I said I did not wish to know their purpose. Now that I see you here, I can guess it, and I wish you, and them, well.”
"Thank you,” Sloane said. He and Rita were in Zileri's modest office near Lima's airport.”When you left Mr. Partridge and the others this morning, how did everything look?”
Zileri shrugged.”The way the jungle always looks—green, impenetrable, endless. There was no activity, other than by your friends.”
Rita told Zileri, "When we talked about extra passengers coming back, we hoped there would be three. But now it's two.”
"I have heard the sad news about Mr. Sloane's father.” The pilot shook his head.”We live in savage times.”
Sloane began, "I was wondering if now . . .”
Zileri finished for him.”. . . if there might be room for you and Miss Abrams to go on the other trips—one, two, or more —to bring the people back.”
"Yes."
"It will be okay. Because one of the expected passengers is a boy, and there will be no freight or baggage, weight will not be a problem. You must be here before dawn tomorrow—and the next day, if we go.”
"We will be,” Rita said. She turned to Sloane.”Harry wasn't optimistic about making a rendezvous the first day after going in. The flight is a precaution in case they need it. All along, he thought the second day more likely.”
* * *
There was one other thing Rita felt she had to do. She did not tell Crawf, but composed a fax message to Les Chippingham, to be waiting for him Monday morning. Deliberately, she did not route the message to the fax machine in the news president's office, but to one at the Horseshoe. There it would be the reverse of private and could be read by others—just as Chippingham's letter dismissing Harry Partridge had been when it arrived at Entel Peru.
Rita addressed her communication:
L W Chippingham
President, CBA News
Copies: All Notice Boards
She had no illusions that what she had written would get on any notice board. It wouldn't. But it was a signal, which would be understood by fellow producers at the Horseshoe, that she wanted wide circulation. Someone would make a copy or copies, to be passed around, read, and probably copied again and again.
The message read:
You sordid, selfish, cowardly son of a bitch!
To fire Harry Partridge the way you did—without cause, warning or even explanation—just to satisfy your cozy crony, the Iceberg-woman, Lloyd-Mason, is a betrayal of everything which used to be fair and decent at CBA.
Harry will come out of this smelling like Chanel No. 5. You already stink like the sewer rat you are.
How I ever let myself go to bed with you regularly is beyond my understanding. But never again! If you had the last erect cock on earth, I wouldn't have it near me.
As for working for you any longer—ugh I With deep sadness for what you used to be, compared with what you have become,
Your ex-friend, ex-admirer, ex-lover, ex-producer,
Rita Abrams
Obviously, Rita thought, after that was received and digested, Harry was not the only one who would be looking for fresh employment. But she didn't care. She felt a whole lot better as she watched the fax leave Entel, knowing that a moment later it was already in New York.
16
It was 2:10 a.m. in Nueva Esperanza.
Jessica had been restless for the past several hours, drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming at times—the dreams becoming nightmares merging with reality.
Moments earlier, certain she was awake, Jessica had peered through the roughly cut window opening facing her cell, and what she thought she saw in dim light reflected from inside was the face of Harry Partridge. Then the face disappeared as suddenly as it came. Was she awake? Or could she still be dreaming? Hallucinating, maybe?
Jessica was shaking her head, trying to clear it, when the face appeared again, rising slowly above the lowest window level, and this time it stayed. A hand made a signal which she didn't understand, but she studied the face again. Could it be? Her heart leaped as she decided: Yes, it could! It was Harry Partridge.
The face was mouthing something silently, the lips making exaggerated movements, attempting to communicate. She concentrated, trying to understand, and managed to grasp the words "the guard.” That was it: Where was the guard?
The guard at the moment was Vicente. He had come on duty an hour ago—apparently very late—and there had been a heated argument between him and Ramon, who had the earlier duty. Ramon had shouted angrily. Vicente, in arguing back, sounded drunk—at least his speech was slurred. Jessica didn't care about the dispute and, as always, was glad to see Ramon go; he had a vicious st
reak, was unpredictable, and still insisted on the silence rule for the prisoners which, by now, none of the other guards enforced.
Turning her head, Jessica could see Vicente. He was seated in the chair which all the guards used, beyond the cells and out of sight of the window. She wasn't sure, but his eyes seemed closed. His automatic rifle was propped against the wall alongside him. Nearby a kerosene lamp hung from a beam above, and it was by the lamp's reflected light she had seen the face outside.
Being careful, in case Vicente should suddenly observe her, Jessica answered the silent question by inclining her head toward where he was seated.
At once the mouth on the face at the window—Jessiea still had trouble accepting it as Harry Partridge's—began to form words again. Once more, she concentrated. After the third time she understood the message: "Call him!”
Jessica nodded slightly, intimating that she understood. Her heart was pounding at the sight of Harry. It could only mean, she thought, that the rescue they had hoped for for so long was finally happening. At the same time, she knew that completing whatever had been started would not be easy.
”Vicente!” She raised her voice no louder than she thought was needed, but it was not enough to penetrate his dozing. A touch more strongly, she tried again.”Vicente!”
This time he stirred. Vicente's eyes opened and met Jessica's. As they did, she beckoned him.
Vicente shifted in his chair. He started to rise and, watching him, Jessica had the impression he was organizing himself mentally, trying to sober tip. He stood, started to come toward her, then quickly turned back to collect his rifle. He held it in a businesslike way, she noticed, clearly ready to use it if required.
She had better have an excuse for summoning Vicente, Jessica reasoned, and decided she would ask by gestures if she could go into Nicky's cell. The request would be refused, but at this point that didn't matter.
She had no idea what Harry had in mind. She only knew, while her anxiety and tension grew, that this was the moment she had dreamed about, yet feared might never come.
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